By turns funny and peculiar, this is a uniquely brilliant hour of comedy, says Dominic
Cavendish.

“A lot of people come to this show as a cry for help — and I will come to you,” purrs Ian D Montfort, “a psychic not a psycho”, by way of gentle opener: silky smooth of voice and Sunderland-accented as he takes to the Pleasance cabaret-bar stage, much as a holy man might stand before a congregation in a place of worship.

Dressed in white, barefoot, beaming in a beatific way, the aura he gives off is that of a latter-day messiah crossed with a 1980s hairdresser.

It gets a good laugh partly because comedy rarely trades in serenity and partly because we know this is an act, one of Sheffield-born comic Tom Binns’s inspired alter-egos, that itself sends up the contrivances of those peddlers of false hope and spurious contact with the beyond — mediums, clairvoyants, and whatnot. Yet here’s the twist: the more Binns invites you to scoff the more he delivers the goods in such a way as to push sceptics towards open-mouthed incredulity. Yes, the audience are required to fill in little forms as they queue up outside but still how on earth does Montfort correctly establish the star-sign of the cynic in the front-row, or anticipate the object another chap covertly draws in a quick round of “doodle-ology” or manage to pluck from a sealed envelope a written “vision” about a random sequence of dice-numbers that proves uncannily on the ball?

The gag-filled patter never lets up: “There’s a lady here whose husband likes beer... does this make sense with you?” he deadpans, and later: “I can predict things, especially the future”. But along the avenue of absurdity lie ambushes of accuracy that have you scratching your head in wonder. By turns funny and peculiar, bonkers and brilliant, there’s no hour of comedy onthe Fringe like it.